And finally, my creativity is flowing again. My depression suppressed any notion of writing for almost a year. I wonder what finally ignited a flame inside my soul. Maybe it never burnt out. Maybe a small ember was still fighting for the oxygen it needed to survive the way my lungs did when I tried to hold my breath until my chest finally stopped rising and falling. Fortunately or unfortunately I am still here. Maybe the mid-nineteen hundreds windows that are painted stark white, yet reveal years of charecter are the facilitator to this sudden spark in my mind. Maybe it was her. They say it helps to write but I am terrified to see the words from my mind that will stain this paper. Maybe I write best when my heart is broken. I wonder if that is when we are simultaneously in the most pain and the most creative. Artists must be in a constant state of distraught and pain; the kind of pain that makes you ache from the inside out. Although I behold an artists’ pain, I do not consider myself an artist. The only impression my words have made are on this paper; quite possibly even my own heart, but that’s only sometimes.
     She always appreciated my writing. She appreciated it the same way a lover would. She gave me that kind of feeling. She gave me that kind of feeling of love but without the burden past lovers have lied upon me; she gave me love without the pain. That kind of feeling overtakes you; the kind where you are falling so fast but time seems to stand as still as her heartbeat. Although eyes are the most cliche human characteristic to write about, her eyes brand my mind. Her eyes are so readable she doesn’t need to tell me her story. The tear stained, blue iris reveals too many nights crying over lovers who never properly loved her back. Her eyes reveal pain her bruises couldn’t. I feel compelled to write for an eternity about her just to show her that someone cares. I get the feeling I am in love with her, not in a romantic way, but in a way that you love someone unconditionally without expecting anything in return. Maybe I just lied to myself. I possibly could be deeply in love with her but my conscious mind tells me, or forces me rather, to end my deep feelings for her. Maybe it’s an act of self preservation, but I have burned thousands of times before so I should be used to the flames. But maybe somewhere in me knows that this flame burns as bright are her soul and as blue as her eyes and will hurt the worst.